


the pieces won't pick up themselves

by shineyma



Series: the life you've got [1]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Established Relationship, F/M, Post-Season/Series 01, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-03
Updated: 2015-07-03
Packaged: 2018-04-07 13:05:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4264278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a lot Jemma doesn't know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the pieces won't pick up themselves

**Author's Note:**

> Ahhh, for once I'm not behind on comment replies! Go me!
> 
> I have been working on this FOREVER and it is such a relief to finally have it finished. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Title is from Icon for Hire's _Pieces_. Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review!

There’s a lot Jemma doesn’t know.

She doesn’t know where she is or how she got here. She doesn’t know the people who surround her, strangers who address her as _Jemma_ in soft, soothing voices—as though speaking to a wounded animal or frightened child, rather than a brilliant scientist. She doesn’t know why she hurts, why the slightest brush of her skin against _anything_ sends awful fire racing through her nerves or why her head pounds constantly. She doesn’t know why she feels _empty_ , like something important has been taken from her—like she’s been hollowed out from the inside, her very being scraped away until there’s nothing left but tatters.

She _does_ know that something’s wrong. She’s losing time—she knows that. She can’t focus; she slides in and out of awareness, sometimes lost in memories that she forgets as soon as her concentration is broken, sometimes lost in…something else.

There are blank spots in her mind, missing pieces she’s not sure she _wants_ to put together, because when she returns to awareness there is blood under her nails and a stinging in her temples. Her throat is sore, voice hoarse as though she’s been shouting—or screaming—for hours.

She doesn’t know what’s happening to her, but she knows it isn’t good.

Luckily, she is not alone. If she asks for anyone else she will be denied, but requesting Fitz gets instant results, every time. There’s something different about him, something old and weary behind his eyes, but he is her best friend and partner and brother and she is so much less afraid when he is with her.

He doesn’t give her many answers, but he lets her cuddle against him with minimal grumbling and holds her just as tightly as she holds him. It hurts, as all contact hurts, but it’s comforting, too. A good pain, one that settles her in her hollow skin.

“What’s happened to me?” she asks him, every time.

“It doesn’t matter,” he always says, in a tone which suggests that it actually does—quite a lot, even. “You’re getting better.”

The first few times, she argued with him— _demanding_ answers, or at least better excuses—but that always ended with him leaving, called away by the strangers (either captors or doctors, she can’t decide; though if Fitz is here they must be SHIELD, mustn’t they?) because she was getting  too agitated. Now, she simply accepts it (albeit grudgingly), because having Fitz is better than _not_ having Fitz.

Still, she always asks the questions, because she is a scientist and she can’t _not_.

“Where’s Grant?” is what she always asks next, because Fitz is her partner and she loves him but Grant is her husband, and it worries her that he’s not here.

“He’s away,” Fitz says. “He’s gone after the people who hurt you. He’ll be back soon.”

She’s not entirely certain how long she’s been here—how can she be, when she loses time so often?—but she knows that Fitz has been telling her _he’ll be back soon_ for a long while, indeed. Weeks, at the very least.

It worries her. She is frightened and in pain and doesn’t need to know what’s happened to her to know that she is unwell, and she knows that there are very few things which could keep Grant from her side when she is in such distress. He’s overprotective, her husband, and he worries about her so, and the idea that he might choose to be elsewhere when she is feeling like this would be laughable if the alternative weren’t so terrifying.

Would he choose revenge over comforting her? She’s never had occasion to know, but she certainly hopes so. Because if he’s _not_ away getting revenge—if Fitz is lying to her—then there’s only one other reasonable explanation.

And she’d much rather he be selfish than dead.

\---

Days or weeks or months pass. She learns to recognize the strangers who surround her, or at least those who visit the most frequently—the middle-aged man with his suits and bad jokes, to whom the others defer; the older woman, blank faced and silent, who, when Jemma is particularly distressed, somehow manages to exude comfort without moving a single muscle; and the young woman, somewhere around Jemma’s own age, who looks at her with such hope and such disappointment—and even comes to like them, a little.

She has preliminarily determined that they are _not_ holding her prisoner. Which is to say, she isn’t allowed to leave, but it appears to be for her own good. She still has no idea what happened to her, but her little black-outs have not lessened in frequency, and she can’t imagine that being unsupervised would end well. These people, whoever they are, do seem to genuinely want to help her, and thus she has made no effort to escape.

Fitz still denies her answers, but she thinks that whatever happened to her wears on him terribly. He seems almost to be wilting—every time she asks for him, he is brought to her at once, and he is always pale and drawn. He seems to hold her tighter with each progressive visit, as though he fears she will slip right out of his grasp.

It’s not out of the question.

Her black-outs have not lessened. They have increased. And she thinks, though she cannot be sure, that they have worsened, as well. She’s come to realize that the blood under her nails when she wakes is her own; there are terrible scratches up and down her arms, as though she’s clawed at her own skin, and if the pain is any indication, she’s clawed at her face as well.

She wonders—worries—what happens during her black-outs. What drives her to cause herself such harm? She has no idea, and that frightens her terribly.

So does the fact that Grant is still _away_.

At this point, it seems obvious that he must be dead. It’s the only reasonable explanation for his continued absence. Yet she cannot bring herself to accept it. She lives in deliberate denial, asking Fitz for Grant’s whereabouts only so she can hear him say that he’s away. As long as Fitz says that—as long as he continues to tell her that he’s seeking vengeance—she can convince herself that he’s alive. Fitz would tell her if Grant were dead.

Of course he would.

She tells herself so again and again. But deep inside, a part of her knows she’s fooling herself. And as the days or weeks or months (she has no clocks and no calendars and too many blank spots; there’s no way to know how long it’s been) pass, that part grows. 

Slowly, horribly, as time crawls by with no sign of him, she begins to believe that he must be dead.

\---

Until one night, she wakes to find him sitting on the side of her bed.

She wakes slowly, easily, without any fear at all, in a way that she hasn’t in far, far too long. A gentle hand is smoothing over her hair, comforting in its familiarity, and, certain that she’s simply caught in the remnants of a dream, she keeps her eyes closed for several long moments. She can’t bear to open them and let the dream slip away.

Then he speaks.

“I know you’re awake, sweetheart,” he says, voice rough with emotion. “You wanna open those beautiful eyes for me?”

She holds her breath as she does so, positive that the illusion is about to shatter.

But it doesn’t.

Grant is right there, next to her, perched on the edge of her bed. He looks different— _truly_ different, visibly different, not like Fitz who is different in some fundamental yet undefinable way—with his hair falling across his forehead and several weeks’ worth of beard and a nasty scar on one cheek, but it’s undoubtedly him.

He’s here.

He’s _alive_.

“Grant,” she gasps, and throws herself at him.

He lets out a little grunt as she makes impact—is he injured? Of course he’s injured, when is he not—but he clings to her just as tightly as she clings to him. She can feel his heart racing against her chest, the stutter in his breathing, and only her worry for him lets her hold back the tears of relief stinging at her eyes.

“Grant,” she says against his neck, and his grip on her tightens in response. “Grant, what is it? What’s wrong?”

He laughs like it’s been punched out of him, draws away and then leans back in, pressing his forehead against hers. It’s been—weeks? A good while, at least—since physical contact caused her pain (though her clothes and the bed and the walls and the shower all hurt terribly, still), but even if it were still the agony she experienced when she first woke here, she would welcome it.

She thought she’d never touch him again—never _see_ him again. To do so, despite her worst fears, is worth any amount of pain.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m so sorry, Jemma. If I had _any_ idea…” He swallows. “I came as soon as I heard. I’m sorry it took me so long.”

It’s her turn to draw away, though she doesn’t go far; she puts just enough distance between them that she can examine his face as she tries to puzzle out his meaning. There’s always a light on in her room—she doesn’t like it dark—so she can see him perfectly clearly.

But she can’t read him at all.

“I don’t understand,” she says, uncertain. “What do you mean, as soon as you heard? Fitz said you were away—going after the people who—who hurt me.”

Grant’s smile is pained. “He was lying. But it’s a nicer lie than I deserve.”

“I don’t understand,” she repeats, shaking her head.

His eyes are dark as he runs his knuckles down her cheek. She knows there are scratches there, has felt the sting of them, though she hasn’t seen them. (She lost the mirror from her bathroom…how long ago? It must be weeks, at least; the bandages disappeared from her hands some time ago, and those cuts would’ve taken ages to heal.)

“I did something,” he confesses, hushed. “Something terrible. Unforgivable.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t that—”

“It was that bad,” he interrupts, gently but firmly. “I tried to tell myself that it wasn’t—that I was just following orders—but it was.” He traces his thumb along her forehead, smoothing out the furrow in her brow. “Eventually, I had to face it. What I did. What I’d become.”

She waits as he trails off into silence. She wants to insist that whatever it is he’s talking about, it can’t be truly unforgivable, but he’s obviously in no mood to listen. They can address the issue of his guilt when he’s in a more reasonable state of mind; for now, she’ll let him finish.

“I ran away from it,” he says eventually. “And I never stopped. That’s why it took me so long to hear what happened to you.”

She straightens, catches the hand that’s been rubbing up and down her thigh and holds it in both of hers.

“What did happen to me?” she asks—begs, perhaps. “Fitz won’t say.”

Grant takes a deep breath. The look on his face is hard to quantify: something like grief, like fury, like guilt. It’s not an expression she’s ever seen on him before.

“You were brainwashed,” he says, gentle and apologetic.

“Brainwashed?” she echoes, dubious. She trusts Grant, of course she does, he wouldn’t lie to her, but—brainwashing? Really? “I don’t—Grant, that’s not possible.”

She would know if she’d been brainwashed, surely? It’s an imprecise science, and not one she knows much about, but she knows it takes time—that a subject must be broken before they can be rebuilt—that it would likely leave scars and, if not scars, a noticeable difference in…

Oh. Oh, dear.

“I know you have questions,” he says. “I’ll answer all of them, I promise.” He tucks her hair behind her ear with his free hand, leaves his fingers on her jaw. “But right now we need to go.”

“Go where?”

“To make you better,” he says. “Coulson and the team, they’ve been trying to help you, but they don’t know how.”

Coulson. That must be the man in command, the one with the bad jokes.

“And you do?” she asks.

“No,” he admits. “But I know someone who does.” He searches her eyes, and his are still so dark. “Will you come with me?”

“Of course,” she says. She wonders that it’s even in doubt. “Do I have time to get dressed?”

He checks his watch and grimaces. “Probably not. Don’t worry; I’ve got stuff for you at the safehouse.”

She wonders at his hurry, too—at the fact that he’s appeared in her bedroom in the middle of the night, that he’s dressed for combat and visibly armed—but doesn’t question him. She simply lets him help her out of bed (unnecessary—she can manage on her own—but she’s hardly about to turn down the offered contact) and to the door. There, he hesitates.

“We do have time for shoes, though,” he says, frowning down at her bare feet. “Where are they?”

“I don’t have any,” she answers. “I’ve not left this room in…” She tries to remember how long it’s been and fails, as usual. “Since I got here.”

Grant mutters something—impolite, judging by the tone—in Arabic, then sighs.

“All right,” he says. “You should be okay inside the base, anyway. Let’s go.”

Her door is always locked and guarded from the outside, but it opens easily for him. When they enter the corridor—bare brick and concrete, just like her room—she discovers that the guard (a tall woman who often brings her tea in the wake of nightmares) is lying motionless on the ground.

A sound of distress escapes Jemma, despite her best efforts to hold it back.

“It’s okay,” Grant says at once. He’s still holding her hand, and he gives it a gentle squeeze. “I used an ICER.”

She blinks up at him. “A what?”

“An…” He pauses, sighs. “Something you and Fitz invented. A tranq gun, basically. She’s just unconscious; she’ll be fine when she wakes up.”

“Oh. Good.”

She wonders also at this, that she’s forgotten even more than she thought she had—she’s never heard of an ICER, has never even discussed tranquilizer guns with Fitz—but this isn’t the time to press for details.

“This way,” he urges, and leads her down the corridor.

There are so many questions to be asked, percolating in her brain, but she does her best to keep them to herself. He’s promised to answer them later, and that’s good enough for her. She tries to focus instead on Grant, on the warmth of his hand in hers, the sweep of his thumb over her skin, the way that, even in his hurry, he shortens his stride to match hers…

Joy and love bubble up alongside the ever-present (even now) hollowness in her chest. She’s missed him—she’s missed him _so much_ —and it’s such a relief to have him here now. Even if he’s right, and she truly has been brainwashed—even if this mysterious someone he knows can’t help her—she can live with it. She can absolutely live with it, as long as she has him.

After a few minutes, they come to a junction of corridors. Grant presses her back against the wall with one arm as he peers around the corner, presumably checking for enemy agents, and suddenly she’s presented with a question she _cannot_ leave for later.

“The SSR?” she asks, staring at the faded logo on the wall across from her. “Grant, what—”

“This is an old SSR base, yeah,” he says. His arm leaves her, and he takes her hand again.

“They _are_ SHIELD, then,” she says, more to herself than to him, as he guides her around the corner. “I had wondered.”

Early on, she assumed that they must be. After all, they knew who she was, and Fitz was clearly in their employ—and happily so. She witnessed him hugging one of her most frequent visitors—the young woman, the sad one—on several occasions, and heard him call the one Grant has named Coulson _sir_ at least twice. And who would Fitz work for, if not SHIELD?

Yet as time passed, it seemed less likely. The lack of answers, the lack of visitors she _knew_ —Grant, of course, or Anne, or Tobias, or Grace—that her room’s walls were bare brick and mortar where she would expect the clean white of SHIELD’s infirmary rooms…all of it added up to a picture where something was wrong.

If they’re at an SSR base, though, they must be SHIELD. Still…

“Why an SSR base?” she asks, as Grant stops them to check around another corner. “Why not the Dome?”

The Dome is SHIELD’s major recovery center, the base to which agents with long-term or permanent damage are sent for care and therapy, of whichever sort is required. Whether Jemma is truly brainwashed or not, she can’t deny she’s suffered _some_ form of severe trauma, as evidenced by her black-outs and incidents of self-harm. She’s a case for the Dome if ever there was one; it seems odd that she’s been sheltered at an SSR base, instead.

(Though the possibilities offered by the location—the SSR! Peggy Carter may well have walked these very corridors!—are certainly thrilling.)

Additionally, if this _is_ SHIELD, what cause could Grant have for spiriting her away in the middle of the night?

“SHIELD isn’t what it used to be.” He squeezes her hand, cutting off the _many_ questions that statement provokes before she can even begin to voice them. “I’m sorry, I know you want answers. And I promise you’ll get them. Just—later.”

The look he gives her isn’t quite pleading, but it _is_ desperate—and, still, with an edge of guilt behind it.

“Of course,” she says. “I’m sorry. Only,” she hesitates, stopping as they pass another unconscious agent—the fourth so far. “What about Fitz?”

Grant doesn’t break stride, though he slows enough that she’s not pulled too harshly into motion. His hand tightens around hers in silent apology as she stumbles, and she squeezes back at once.

“Grant?” she prompts, after a few moments pass without an answer. “What about Fitz? We can’t just leave him.”

He grimaces a little, exhaling slowly as they turn yet another corner. This one, unlike all the others, leads them to a very short corridor that ends in a door mere feet away. He stops beside it, turning to face her, and though his face is shaded by the corridor’s dim lighting, she can read the discomfort in it.

“Fitz hates me, Jemma,” he says, almost apologetically.

“What?” She blinks up at him, thrown. What a ridiculous thing to say; he’s one of Fitz’s best friends! “Don’t be absurd—”

“I told you what I did was unforgivable,” he interrupts, squeezing her hand. “Trust me, Fitz hates me now. And he’s got every right to.” There’s a gun in his other hand (has he been holding that this whole time?) and he holsters it in favor of cupping her cheek. “He’s gonna be fine here, okay? These people are his friends.”

She chews on her lip, uncertain. She hates to leave Fitz, and she’s sure things really aren’t as bad as all that, but…

She reminds herself of Fitz’s apparent closeness to the people here, of Coulson’s hand on his shoulder and the sad woman’s hugs and the man who came to fetch him once, who called him _Turbo_ and made him smile.

“He’s gonna be fine,” Grant repeats, hand dropping to her shoulder. He searches her face. “If you really want, I can go get him—but he won’t come willingly, I can promise you that. I might have to hurt him.”

That decides it, then. She doesn’t believe it at all—that Fitz wouldn’t come willingly _or_ that Grant would hurt him—but the misery hiding beneath the words is more than she can bear. He sounds so _sad_ , and after so long away from him, she can’t stand the thought of Grant being unhappy.

“That’s all right,” she says. “He’ll be fine?”

“He’ll be fine,” he says again.

He can always join them later, she supposes. Once she’s managed to disabuse Grant of this absurd notion that whatever he’s done is so terrible.

“Then we’ll leave him be,” she says.

“Thank you,” Grant says, and tugs her closer to kiss her forehead. “You ready?”

For what, she wonders, but nods.

“Okay,” he says, and opens the door, revealing a garage. “This place is kind of a mess, so I’m gonna carry you, okay?”

Peering into the garage, she can see that the half of it not filled with vehicles seems to be some kind of half-engineering, half-mechanical work area, and she nods her agreement at once. A lab is no place to go without shoes.

(And, perhaps more relevantly, the more physical contact she can have with Grant right now, the better.)

“There shouldn’t be anyone around at this hour,” he says, “But just in case…” He draws the gun again and holds it out to her. She accepts it hesitantly. “This is an ICER. It works just like a regular gun—point and shoot—but it fires dendrotoxin rounds instead of bullets. So it won’t hurt anyone you hit, just knock ‘em out for a while.”

Jemma stares at the gun—ICER—in her hands, incredulous. “Dendrotoxin is a highly potent _neurotoxin_. How is that not harmful?”

“Don’t ask me,” he says, and sweeps her up into his arms. “You’re the one who made it.”

“Really?” she asks, turning the ICER over thoughtfully even as she cuddles against him. He’s so _warm_ ; she didn’t realize until this moment, with the heat of him seeping into her, just how cold she’s been. “Hmm. Dendrotoxin is what mambas use to paralyze and kill their prey. I suppose it would be theoretically possible to isolate the—what?”

Grant’s quiet chuckle interrupts her. His eyes are scanning their surroundings as he carries her across the garage, but he dips his head long enough to press a kiss to the top of hers.

“Nothing,” he says. “I’ve just missed that, that’s all. You talking science.”

Her heart aches at the false lightness in his tone. It might have been his doing that they’ve been apart—something which will need to be addressed at some point—but it’s obvious that it hurt him just as much as it hurt her, if not more so.

“So have I,” she says, in lieu of wrapping her arms around his neck and sobbing about how much she’s missed him. “I haven’t been well enough for it, I don’t think. Or at least, I’ve never been allowed in a lab—and most days I haven’t even thought to ask.”

“I’m sorry,” he says. He stops next to an SUV, very near to an open garage door, and sets her on her feet. “We’re gonna fix that, okay? You’ll be back in the lab before you know it.”

She smiles up at him, choosing to ignore the undertone to his words, which suggests it won’t truly be that easy. Today is a good day, and whatever comes next, Grant is alive and here with her. She can’t bring herself to worry about anything beyond that.

“Thank you,” she says.

“Don’t—” He shakes his head, taking the ICER from her and busying himself with holstering it. “It shouldn’t have taken me this long. I’m sorry.”

He looks so sad. She can’t abide it.

She fists her hands in his shirt and pulls herself up onto her toes to kiss him, and her whole body hums with happiness as his hand rests against her lower back, steadying her and holding her close at once. His other hand slides into her hair—gently, so gently, as though he knows about the headache that rages always at the base of her skull.

The kiss is just as gentle as his touch, but it fills her up with such warmth, she can hardly believe it. For the first time in—well, who knows; certainly for the first time since all this started—she barely feels empty at all. In fact, she feels almost like a real person again.

When he breaks the kiss, the hollowness rushes back, and it’s almost enough to make her cry.

“Don’t be sorry,” she says instead. “Just don’t leave me again. Please.”

His face is serious, set in solemn lines as he opens the car door and helps her in.

“I won’t,” he vows. “Never again. I promise.”

She believes him.

**Author's Note:**

> There will, eventually, someday, be another part to this series. I can't make promises as to when--this fic, short as it is, literally took me eight months to finish--but it _will_ happen. For now, I'll just say that what you think is happening here might not be what's actually happening. Don't jump to any conclusions!


End file.
